Sunday, July 14, 2013

Sunday Sentence: The Ocean at the End of the Lane by Neil Gaiman

Simply put, the best sentence(s) I've read this past week, presented out of context and without commentary.

At first, I do not think I knew what I was looking at.  I could make no sense of it.  Where Ursula Monkton had been made of gray cloth that flapped and snapped and gusted in the storm-winds, Lettie Hempstock was made of silken sheets the color of ice, filled with tiny flickering candle flames, a hundred hundred candle flames.

1 comment:

  1. And that's why Neil is at the top of his game. But Fobbit? That hit the real, the gut punch of war's reality, even with the comic relief. Like MASH, the terrible is always survived by a wicked sense of humor.